


Donna Moss' Advice to the Lovelorn

by JoMarch



Series: An Innocent Kiss [3]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:32:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoMarch/pseuds/JoMarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Josh pursues Joey Lucas, Donna tries to sort out her feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Donna Moss' Advice to the Lovelorn

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They're not mine. They belong to Aaron Sorkin and his corporate bosses.  
> Thanks as always to Ryo Sen, who should stop reading this and get to work on letting me know what the hell Josh was thinking. (Hey, it's 13 years later and that still applies. Subtle hint there, Ryo.)

Josh is happy. Toby and Sam just don't know it yet.

They seem to believe that Josh might be dreading the phone call he'll get as soon as the president announces his nominees to the FEC.

Are they nuts?

They've known the man longer than I have. Surely by now they know that this is exactly the sort of moment Josh lives for. He's standing to my left, and I'd like to observe -- in a completely objective manner, you understand -- that he's looking very handsome tonight. Black formal suit, crisp white shirt. For once, I am not ashamed to admit I work for him. You can tell, just by looking, that he's tense, but it's not a nervous tense. It's the other kind of tense -- tense as in drawing back a bow, preparing a weapon, setting a trap. Josh is a trap waiting to be sprung.

Toby and Sam, in the center of this line we've formed, are alternately bickering and offering what they think are helpful comments. Oddly enough, Josh and I are the quiet ones tonight.

The announcement is made, the phone rings, and I play my minor (but, I like to think, crucial) role in tonight's drama.

We spent hours in the office today, Josh and I, planning this one tiny moment. Do I answer the phone on the first ring or the second? Do I put the senator on hold, or do I hand the phone immediately to Josh? Even the smallest gesture, in politics, has significance.

Our final strategy: one ring.

If it's the senator, he won't be put on hold. If it's an aide, I will hum one chorus of the Minute Waltz before handing the phone to Josh.

And just to make sure that we don't ruin this brilliant strategy through mixed signals, we have a code. If I say, "Josh," it's the senator himself. If I say, "Joshua," it's the aide.

As for what Josh will tell the senator, he worked that out all on his own. Although he practiced several versions of his delivery with me this afternoon. He decided, and I agreed, that it sounds best with a slight emphasis on the last word.

One ring.

"Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff." (Yes, it's the cell phone. But "Josh Lyman's cell phone" hardly sounds intimidating, does it?)

It's the senator.

I walk to Josh's side and place the phone in his hand. "Josh," I say.

And then he moves apart from Toby, Sam and me. He is all swagger, all bravado, all pent up energy as he says the words that only I know are so carefully rehearsed. "Hi, Senator. Why don't you take your legislative agenda and shove it up your ass?"

With one fluid motion, he shuts off the phone, tosses it to me and makes a joke to Sam and Toby. He walks away, swaggering even more, if such a thing is possible. He is brash, conceited, belligerent and much too happy about getting the last word.

I have never loved him more.

* * *  
The more I think about this, the more I am convinced that romantic love is a colossal waste of time and effort. First of all, there's the business of finding someone -- the endless rounds of meeting guys, asking someone out and waiting to be asked out, getting dressed up and making small talk, only to discover that you never want to see this person again as long as you live.

And then--miracle of miracles!--you find someone. You find a reasonably attractive and intelligent someone. You could -- in fact, you often do -- spend your entire day with him and never get tired, never get bored, never wish you were anywhere besides in his company. You care so much for this person that you are willing to overlook his faults. His many, many faults.

This isn't one of those situations where you just met the guy and the faults you're willing to overlook now will drive you mad in a month. No, this is a man you've known for two years. You're intimately acquainted with how arrogant, brash and conceited he is. And you actually love him for that. You honestly believe you wouldn't love him as much if he didn't have those little character flaws.

Shouldn't that be the end? According to every movie you've ever seen, every book you've ever read, every fairy tale you were told in childhood, isn't that the end? If this were a sappy movie, you'd be Meg Ryan and he'd be Tom Hanks. The two of you would have some witty declaration of undying love, there'd be an embrace, the music would swell, and the credits would roll.

And they lived happily ever after.

Yeah, right. Welcome to the real world. In the real world, you had to go and fall for this brash, conceited, cocky jerk who doesn't love you back. Who has an unfortunate obsession with someone who isn't you. And even supposing he came to his senses, there are other obstacles. Really big obstacles. Hypothetical example: he could have a highly sensitive job. A job that involves things such as national security. And remember that he's brash, conceited -- have I mentioned hostile lately? So he makes enemies easily. Those enemies would be really grateful if he screwed up by doing something as stupid as having an affair with his personal assistant.  
Because, of course, that's who you are.

Well-meaning friends and co-workers point this out to you. They explain the consequences in such graphic terms that you have nightmares about bringing down the entire Bartlet administration because of what seemed at the time like an uncomplicated kiss under the mistletoe.

You realize you'd better remember every detail of that one little kiss because that's probably all you'll ever get.

So there you are, in love with a man who doesn't love you back and who would undoubtedly suffer dire consequences if he did. And this is where you realize that you've got it really bad, because you love him so much that the idea of his being hurt like that makes you glad he doesn't love you.

Obviously, you are a complete and total masochist.

What do you do in a situation like that?

No, seriously. What do you do?

Because I need an answer here, and I haven't got a clue.

* * *

Josh is going to be hurt. He just doesn't know it yet.

We're back in the West Wing now, walking toward the office. I'm walking, that is; Josh is strutting. Word has already spread, and everyone is congratulating him for the aplomb with which he handled the senator. 

Great. It's not like the man lacks for self-confidence already.

Josh, who is too damn pleased with himself, smiles at me. "You know," he says, "I think I have just passed into the realm of legend."

His smile may be conceited, but it's also contagious. "Legend, Joshua?"

"Years from now, White House staffers as yet unborn will continue to spread the legend of the deputy chief of staff who told a member of the United States Senate to take his legislative agenda and shove it up his ass."

You know in history class how you heard the story about the slave who was supposed to walk with the Roman emperor in processions and whisper in his ear, "Remember, Caesar, that thou art mortal?" Well, change "slave" to "personal assistant" and you have my role in this conversation.

"Of course, they'll also still be spreading the legend of your secret plan to fight inflation."

He grins and gives me the look that acknowledges my point. He also puts an arm around me and squeezes just a bit. Not a real hug, you understand. Between the lecture we both got in Leo's office after Christmas and the rather disjointed conversation I had with him in February about needing to draw some lines in our relationship, he is trying to do better. Still, he's Josh. He's a bundle of energy that usually expresses itself through physical movement.

I can't complain because I want that contact too. Most important, I don't want anything ruining this moment for him. He thrives on these kinds of battles -- and I want him to savor this victory while he can.  
Because I know what I have to tell him next.

About two months ago, Josh and I went to California with the president. We were among the White House staffers who attended a political fundraiser in L.A. Among the guests was a woman named Joey Lucas, whom Josh had met once before. Saying Josh had a crush on Joey Lucas is like saying that chocolate tastes good. The statement is accurate as far as it goes, but it hardly conveys the intensity of the experience. Joey Lucas, in my admittedly prejudiced opinion, flirted with Josh shamelessly. And when he went to say goodbye to her (at my instigation -- and can I just mention in my own defense that I'd had way too much champagne that evening?), he discovered that Joey was sleeping with someone else.

The name "Joey Lucas" has not been uttered between us since. I had hoped the incident was closed. However, I found out today that it's about to be reopened.

I know because Bonnie and Ginger told me.

This is, as far as I can figure out, the way it happened: Someone (probably the president or Leo) decided we needed a polling expert. Someone else (possibly Toby) decided on Al Kiefer. Al Kiefer suggested that we bring in a California expert, since part of that now legendary legislative agenda is the issue of English as the national language. Al Kiefer (on this point, everyone seems to agree) suggested Joey Lucas. Toby, knowing at least the highlights of the Josh-and-Joey saga, realized that Josh would not respond well to this news. And Toby, who despite his gruff exterior cannot bear causing his friends pain, leaked the news of Joey Lucas' imminent arrival to his assistants Bonnie and Ginger.

Now Bonnie and Ginger are extremely good at reading between the lines. They understood that their job was to pass this news along to someone who would in turn break the news to Josh. Someone like, say, Josh's personal assistant.

Of course, their timing sucked. I was in the ladies' room, changing from my business suit into something more appropriate for the dinner at which President Bartlet would be speaking. They tried to be offhand about it; I tried to act as though I was indifferent to the entire matter. No one was fooled.

As the individual most directly responsible for the care and feeding of Josh Lyman's ego, I had to make a quick decision. I put off telling him until after the president's speech.

I'll admit to feeling resentful about all this. I'll admit wanting to say to hell with Toby (and with Sam, who was undoubtedly part of this). I'll admit that I do not want to be there when Josh's heart is bruised again. And I certainly do not want to be the one to break the news. So I let him go back to his office for a few minutes before I tell him Toby wants to see him.

I come so close to sending him into Toby's office unprepared.

But then my conscience gets the better of me, and I run after him.

"The thing is--" I tell Josh, "and it's going to be interesting to see how you react to this -- but Kiefer wants to bring in a California expert."

He stops suddenly as the words "California expert" sink in. I confirm that, yes, it's Joey Lucas and that she'll be here tomorrow. Also that I was afraid to tell him. You can see he's thrown, and so we talk around the idea for a minute while he gets used to it. My role here is concerned friend, and I think I play it rather well. Certainly Josh doesn't seem to notice that I'm upset for reasons all my own.

Then he regains his poise. You can see the swagger come back into his walk as he takes what amounts to another victory lap through the bullpen. Unless you'd heard our conversation, you'd have no reason to suspect that anything was wrong.

Sometimes it is just too easy to love him.

* * *

So, like I was asking before, what do you do? You love him; he loves someone else; the whole thing is impossible.

We all know what you do, don't we? We've all seen the same movies and read the same books.

You suffer.

In silence.

You go home and you cry. You play the sappiest love songs you can find. God help you, you may actually find yourself pondering the lyrics of that awful song from Titanic.

Because, according to all the movies and the books and the sappy love songs, suffering works. You'll be cleansed and noble and pure of heart. He'll sense your suffering -- because underneath it all, he's a sensitive, caring guy -- and he'll love you for letting your world revolve around him.

Bullshit.

Here is what will really happen: your eyes will get bloodshot, you won't be able to function properly at work because you lost all that sleep while you were listening to Celine Dion, and your ability to reason will have been weakened by the platitudes in those songs.

As for him, why should he want you? What is so appealing about a red-eyed, half asleep, witless woman? Look in the mirror: would you want you?

Exactly.

So why should he?

* * *

Josh is excited. I'm not sure why yet.

He has come to my apartment this morning to pick me up for our breakfast meeting with Leo. Even though it's spring, there's just enough chill in the air to make sitting on my tiny balcony and sipping my morning coffee uncomfortable. Yet here I sit at 7 a.m., just so I can get my first glimpse of Josh before he sees me.

Have I reached the level of obsession or what?

Joey Lucas, as we all know, arrives today, and I want to judge Josh's mood. This is part of my job, after all. I need to know what Josh's state of mind is if I'm to be at my most efficient today.

Yeah, I know. I'm not even fooling myself.

I want to look. Just look. Stare at this infuriating, complicated man I have fallen for against my better judgment. Josh Lyman, eye candy. Why not? Don't I deserve to get a little pleasure out of this unfortunate mess?

And there, suddenly, he is. Some of yesterday's triumph is still with him. He's toned the swagger down a notch from last night, but it's still on display. The sun is behind him, and it gives him almost a halo effect. I take another sip of coffee and smirk. Josh Lyman with a halo. What's wrong with that picture?  
From the pace at which he's moving, you can tell he's having a good morning. He's eager to get to the West Wing. The question, of course, is why? Because he wants to continue the battle he started last night, or because he wants to see Joey Lucas again?

The skilled Josh watcher can find the answer by noticing his suit. It's that suit that gives everything away.  
Let me explain about Josh and his suits. Some men -- I've noticed a lot of them in DC -- put a great deal of time and effort into their wardrobe. They buy Armani. They read GQ. They make sure their clothes are freshly pressed. They never wear the same suit two days in a row.

Then there's Josh.

Josh does not pay attention to his wardrobe. Josh's wardrobe is, in fact, a disaster. Honestly. If I could get President Bartlet to take a look at it, I'm sure he'd declare a national emergency. We'd have the Joshua Lyman Clothing Disaster Relief Fund. At first, I thought I could handle this problem on my own. I've done a fairly good job of organizing the rest of his life; I could organize this. So I went to his apartment -- while he whined the entire time because I was doing him this huge favor that is not in my job description -- and I opened his closet door.

When I stopped screaming, I called one of those companies that comes over and organizes your closet for you. They assured me that, no matter how bad the problem was, they could fix it.

They took one look at the Closet of Doom and ran screaming into the night.

So instead of organizing Josh's existing wardrobe, I took him shopping. Getting him into the store was a project all its own. According to Josh, shopping is what they make you do in the seventh circle of hell. I, on the other hand, had fun. It was like having a life-sized, anatomically correct Ken doll to play with. I finally picked three suits he looked really good in and sent him home with orders to wear them only under special circumstances -- State of the Union, TV appearances, that kind of thing. Amazingly, he's been pretty good about following my orders.

He's wearing one his three good suits today. We have nothing special on the schedule. I know, because I keep a copy of Josh's schedule in my apartment. (He's always calling me at home and asking me about it.) The only unusual event scheduled for today is the arrival of the California polling expert.

Joey Lucas.

He is wearing one of his three good suits for Joey Lucas.

Unfortunately, my balcony is too high for me to be able to spill coffee on him in any effective kind of way.

"Morning, Josh," I call down. It doesn't bother me in the least. Really. It doesn't.

"Donnatella Moss," he says.

"Nice threads, Joshua." See how much I am not bothered?

He's looking up, grinning like the lovestruck bastard he is. "Get down here, would you? Looking up at you like this makes me feel as though I'm in some half-assed junior high production of Romeo and Juliet."

Now there's a challenge for you. Luckily, I'm up to it.

"Joshua, Joshua, Joshua," I declaim dramatically. (I played Beatrice in my college production of Much Ado About Nothing. Bet you didn't know that, did you?) "Wherefore art thou Joshua? Deny office policy and refuse thy generous government pension. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love and I'll no longer refuse to bring thee coffee."

I'm rather proud of that speech. Completely spontaneous.

"You know," he says, "they told me I was hiring a crazy person, but did I listen?"

"I could do the entire balcony scene for you. I know all the lines. Both parts."

"You want to get your ass down here now, Gwyneth?"

"That's the problem with the American public -- no appreciation for the classics." I run back inside, grab my purse and a notebook and practically skip down the steps to meet him.

That's how bad I've got it. He got dressed up to impress some other woman, and I'm just happy I'm having breakfast with him and four other people.

Once downstairs, I give myself a treat: I move in close enough to touch, and I lightly finger the lapels of his suit. "One of your good outfits," I observe.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It's just that I thought this was a regular Tuesday."

"It is."

"And yet you have on your special suit."

"It's not a special suit. And it's just a regular Tuesday."

I'm so cheery I make myself want to puke. "Oh, I think there's a reason you're wearing your special suit, Josh."

"Don't push it, Donna."

"I'm just saying."

He stops walking, turns on me and says, "I mean it. Don't push."

You can't win with Josh. You try to be perky and supportive when you're feeling miserable because he's  
wearing his good suit for a woman who already broke his heart, and he snaps at you. I get in his car, and we drive to the restaurant in silence.

Margaret and Leo are already at the restaurant when we get there. Toby and Sam are on their way. I will not let anyone see how miserable I am. I am perky with a vengeance.

"You should note that Josh has on a nice suit," I say.

"Donna," he warns.

"We'll call it his Joey Lucas suit. You know, from now on."

And we're off. Even Margaret gets into the act. The discussion of mandatory minimum sentences for drug offenders is peppered with commentary over whether Josh is wearing a special suit for Joey Lucas or whether he's wearing his regular Tuesday suit. Everyone is amused, except for Josh. And possibly Leo, who doesn't understand any of it.

At some point, the discussion moves from mandatory minimums to English as the national language. There is much talk, led rather too enthusiastically by Josh, about the importance of the California polling numbers and how much help Joey Lucas will be. I look at my eggs and find that my appetite is gone.

I really am beginning to regret not having ordered the waffles.

* * *

This, of course, brings us to the subject of food. Women nursing broken hearts take one of two extreme attitudes toward food. Have you noticed?

The first attitude is the "I fell in love and lost my appetite" strategy. Women who follow this strategy also tend to believe in the "suffering makes you noble" line of reasoning. If you stop eating, this philosophy maintains, you can have the advantage of wearing your suffering on your body. If those red-rimmed eyes didn't get him, the loss of ten or fifteen pounds will bring him running. You could, under extreme circumstances, end up with a lifelong eating disorder as well. Listen to me carefully: no man is worth that.

Certainly not Joshua Lyman.

And I know what you're thinking. Yes, it's true; I am pretty thin already. It is not, however, from starving myself. Ask the aforementioned Mr. Lyman, who will gladly tell you that I get very, very cranky if he suggests that I miss a meal.

No, mine is strategy number two: comfort food. As far as I'm concerned, there are two men -- and two men only -- who will never betray you. Their names are Ben and Jerry. Spend quality time with them. They are the best friends you will find in your time of sorrow.

And don't skimp: No fat free, sugar free stuff for you at a time like this. You need chocolate . Lots of chocolate. Personally, I recommend Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream, followed as necessary by Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Chunky Monkey will do in a pinch, but at a time like this you'll get very little comfort from Cherry Garcia.

Keep chocolate bars in your desk for emergencies. If you don't have access to Godiva, try Cadbury. In the greater DC area, you can find a substantial line of Cadbury chocolate at this nice little newsstand about three blocks from the White House.

Tell them the attractive blonde who's always complaining about her boss sent you.

* * *

My car's in the shop again, which is why I'm relying on Josh for transportation this morning. I tell him to stop at the newsstand so I can pick up his morning supply of newspapers. I emerge ten minutes later with all the major metropolitan dailies from around the country and with a large shopping bag.

I place the shopping bag between us. As we're waiting for a light to change, Josh takes a peak into the bag.  
"Big date after the speech last night, huh?" he asks.

"What?"

"After two years, I know the signs. Another local gomer broke your heart."

"I wouldn't say broke. I also wouldn't call him a local gomer."

"He's not worth it, Donna."

"You don't even know who he is."

"I know that you deserve better than some guy who's going to drive you to one of your chocolate binges."

"Your concern is touching."

"Well, if you're busy feeding your face, you're not going to get any work done. It's purely self-interest on my part."

"Speaking of work--" God, I don't want to mention this. "Where do we put your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend, and what do you mean where do we put her?"

"Leo's going to want her on our side of the building."

"You'll find room. Just make sure it's some place nice, okay?"

"All the nice places are on Toby's side of the building." It's an old argument. Josh slept late the day we went to the West Wing to look for office space, despite my repeated phone calls urging him to get his ass in gear. Consequently, Toby, Sam and CJ called dibs on the good offices before Josh was even in the building. Thus, the deputy chief of staff, his personal assistant and the half dozen staffers who work for us are crowded into the smallest, drabbest area in the building. Josh says that maybe we can do something about this after re-election. Unless someone decides to build an addition onto what is probably the most famous building in the U.S., I doubt it.

"Kenny will probably need a desk too," Josh says.

For some reason, having to provide office space for Kenny the interpreter is the last straw. "There is no space," I say. "There literally is no space into which Joey Lucas, her interpreter and all her stuff will fit. Quit expecting me to do things that cannot possibly be done."

Josh turns toward me, and God help me if he hasn't chosen this of all moments to be sweet-guy Josh. "He really hurt you, huh?"

"Yes, Josh, he really hurt me."

"He's scum," Josh says knowingly.

"And you would know this because--?"

"I would know this because he hurt you."

"He's not scum, Josh," I answer. I pause for a second and add, "And I'll find some office space for Joey Lucas. I refuse to give Kenny more than a chair, however."

* * *

The other woman. Now here, I think is where things get really complicated. Think about it: This is the woman he wants, the woman you're not. Hard not to hate her, right? And yet you admire this man; you admire his fire, his wit, his intelligence.

You just think he has really bad taste in women.

But if he's so witty and intelligent, how can you think his taste in women will be bad? I mean, other than the fact that she's not you, what's wrong with her?

Okay, maybe she has character flaws. Maybe, for instance, she slept with one man while flirting with another. But you don't know the details, do you? So you shouldn't be jumping to conclusions.

However, she's the other woman, so you jump to all kinds of conclusions anyway.

Here's the thing: if she weren't the other woman, maybe you'd like her. Maybe you'd get to be buddies, friends, pals. You might find that you have something in common; after all, you already share the same taste in men.

Then again, maybe you'd dislike her no matter who she was dating.

And her little interpreter too.

* * *

Yes, folks, it's the moment we've all been waiting for: Joey Lucas has arrived. Oh joy unending.  
From my perspective, she could not have arrived at a worse moment. I'm up to my elbows (literally) in old files I'm attempting to transfer in order to give Joey Lucas some space. I'm covered with dust from the old desk I've commandeered from the basement, and my hair got mussed up in the process as well. So, of course, Joey Lucas is not looking at all like she took the red-eye from L.A.

And I'm the one who lectures Josh on appearance.

I usher Joey and Kenny into Josh's office after the usual insincere pleasantries and send someone off to the Oval Office to get Josh.

The Oval Office.

That's where Josh is. He's in a meeting with the President of the United States in the Oval Office. It doesn't get any more important than that.

And yet Josh gets back here at what I can only call record speed. If his name were Clark Friggin' Kent, he could not have gotten here any faster.

I don't stick around to find out what he says to her. I have no desire to hear it. I just see the look on his face -- excited, delighted, happy -- and I want to be anywhere else.

I don't go far enough away, however. I hear the end of the conversation. The entire bullpen hears the end of the conversation. In a ringing voice, Kenny shouts, "I'm not sleeping with Al Kiefer any more."

As much as I'd like to convince myself that Kenny has chosen this moment to come out of the closet, it's clear he's speaking for Joey. All action stops. Most people turn around to look at Josh and Joey. A few people turn to glance at me, and I think I see pity on some faces. Dear God, is it that obvious?

There is literally no one I don't hate.

* * *

He wants to talk about her. That is all he wants to talk about. You're his friend; you're female. Great time for him to finally notice, huh? He wants your opinion about how to win her heart.

Do not get involved in that conversation.

Just don't.

* * *

We're supposed to have a working lunch. I sent out for sandwiches. I've looked forward to this moment all day. I've been sharpening my bantering skills in preparation.

"So Joey's settling in okay, don't you think?" That is the very first thing he says.

"Honestly, Josh, I hadn't noticed."

"Cause last time I went to check on her--"

"You've been checking on her?"

"It seemed like the thing to do."

"It wasn't, Josh. It really wasn't."

He looks worried.

"Josh," I ask, "do you remember California? Do you remember that at all?"

"Apparently, Donna, you were the only person in the West Wing who didn't hear that--"

"She's not sleeping around any more. Yeah, I heard."

"She wasn't sleeping around. She was never sleeping around. What is your problem?"

Now isn't it obvious what my problem is? Even if you'd never met us before and you heard my admittedly catty remarks here, couldn't you guess?

You want to be really frightened? This singularly clueless man helps run the nation.

Explains a lot, doesn't it?

"I have no problem, Josh. I simply have a different interpretation. She was sleeping with Kiefer; now she's dumping him for you. I just--"

"You really think so?"

"What?"

"Do you really think Joey dumped Kiefer for me?" He's grinning. Of course he's grinning. It's another Lyman victory, friends. The man does like to win; doesn't really matter at what.

"That is so not the issue, Josh."

He shakes his head. He's got that look on his face. See, I'm supposed to be the pal who tells him all the secret girl codes so he can discover where he stands with Joey Lucas. I'm not playing the role he's assigned me, and that upsets him.

"What is the matter with you today?" he asks.

For a minute, I consider telling him. I consider saying, "Joshua Lyman, you clueless dope, I happen to be in love with you." Just, you know, to see what kind of reaction I'd get.

But what's the point? He doesn't love me back and all that would happen is that I'd ruin the relationship we have now.

"I'm sorry, Josh," I say, "but I have a lot on my mind right now. I don't want to talk about Joey Lucas. Now are we going to work or not? Because I have plenty of other things I could be doing."

He waves me out the door. I've almost made my escape when he calls me back. "Donna?"

"What?"

"Is this about that guy?"

"What guy?"

"The guy you went out with last night?"

"Yeah, Josh, it's about that guy."

"He doesn't deserve you, Donnatella."

Could the man be any more witless if he worked at it? I'm asking seriously, could he?

"Oh, I don't know, Josh," I say. "You don't know this guy as well as I do. I think he deserves me. I think he deserves me just so I can make the rest of his life hell on earth."

Josh laughs. It's a glorious sound. "That's my girl," he says.

If only.

* * *

Now we come to the subject of friends. When you are heartbroken, friends can be a comfort. They can listen to you pour out your heart; they can give advice both of you know you'll never follow; they can tell you they never liked him anyway and he was never good enough for you.

So relying on your friends is all to the good.

There's a down side here too, remember. Friends may tell you a few home truths -- things you do not want to hear. They're looking at things from a different perspective, and you may not like what they have to say.

So be careful whom you decide to bond with.

* * *

I go into the ladies' room. On my agenda: screaming at the top of my lungs. Also throwing things.

I open the door and am nearly hit by a flying soap dish.

"Oh my god, Donna," CJ says. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." I pick the soap dish up off the floor. "Stand back, will you?" The soap dish careens off the wastebasket with a satisfying amount of noise.

CJ and I exchange looks.

"Danny?" I ask.

She nods. "Josh, I presume?"

"Of course."

"That patronizing, egotistical, misogynistic bastard," CJ says.

"Danny or Josh?"

"Both."

"What did Danny do?" I ask.

CJ dismisses Danny with a wave of her hand. "He just demonstrated another in a long line of reasons it would never work. How about Josh?"

"Joey Lucas," I reply. "He's obsessing."

CJ gives me that look she has--the one that means she's measuring the situation. "Come with me," she says.  
We go to her office and shut the door.

"I know you don't want to hear this," she says, "but it's my job to say it."

"You said it at Christmas, CJ; I got the message then."

"No," she says. "No, Donna, I don't think you did. Strange as it is to say, I think Josh was the one who got the message."

"Josh and I together, bad idea," I say. "We're a PR disaster waiting to happen. See? Message received."

"You cannot have him, Donna. I'm sorry, but that's how it has to be. You. Can't. Have. Josh." She speaks those four words just like that, determined to make the message stick.

"I could quit," I say. "There are other jobs." All this is moot, of course, because of Joey Lucas. But I've thought through those options, and I want CJ to understand that.

She shakes her head. "First of all, the fact that you were ever Josh's assistant lends an air of impropriety to your relationship, no matter where you're working. Second, I doubt Josh would let you go."

"Well, he'd have to, wouldn't he? If I quit."

"He'd use every means of persuasion available to him to get you to stay. Every means. This is Josh we're talking about, and we both know he can fight dirty when he has to."

"He lives for it," I agree.

"And, boy, does he have the means to fight dirty with you." She pauses again and adds for effect,  
"Donnatella."

"You know," CJ continues, "the part of Josh that loves a fight would relish something this personal. He could fight as dirty as he likes while still claiming the moral high ground. And, yes, he'd take some hits. He might very well lose his career in politics. More likely though, he'd walk away with just minor bruises. The deputy chief of staff or his personal assistant. His female personal assistant. Who do you think would suffer most in that battle?"

"What if I thought he was worth it?" I ask.

CJ shakes her head sadly. "This administration still suffers. President Bartlet, Leo, Toby, Sam -- they all suffer. Every woman who works in this administration would have to deal with dirty jokes and innuendo in the press, all because you and Josh Lyman couldn't keep your hands off each other."

And that's the thing that makes talking to CJ uncomfortable sometimes: when she's right, dammit, she's right.

"Doesn't matter," I say. "He's got this thing for Joey Lucas."

"I know," CJ says. She sounds so sad, like she's really sorry for me. "But I also know that you could stop it in a minute if you wanted to."

I could?

"How?"  
"Go in there and plant one on him, Donna," CJ says. "It's as simple as that."

"Except for the political ramifications," I say.

"Except for those," CJ agrees.

We're quiet for a minute, then CJ adds, "She's a good person, Donna. Who knows? She could be just what he needs. She stands up to him, instead of falling for the infamous Lyman charisma. At least give him a chance with her."

"All they do is argue," I protest.

CJ laughs. She has this magnificent laugh, and I feel myself smiling sincerely for the first time today. "And we all know what a turnoff that is for Josh Lyman," she says. "I can't tell you what to do, Donna," she adds, "but my job is to make sure you understand that things between you and Josh can never be just personal. Not while we're in the White House."

I thank CJ for the advice and turn to go. That's when I remember something. "CJ," I say, "what did you mean when you said that Josh was the one who got the message at Christmas?"

"I mean that's how much he loves you, even if he doesn't realize it," she says. "So far, he's actually been able to walk away from what would be the biggest political fight of his career because he knows you'd be the one destroyed."

"Let him have Joey Lucas," she says softly. "Your job is to take care of him, and that's the best way you can do that right now."

* * *  
Spoilers: Mandatory Minimums, Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics. Small ones for Celestial Navigation and 20 Hours in L.A.  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. They belong to Aaron Sorkin and his corporate bosses.  
Summary: While Josh pursues Joey Lucas, Donna tries to sort out her feelings. Sequel to An Innocent Kiss and Alabaster.  
Thanks: Thanks, as always, to Ryo Sen, who should stop reading this and get to work on letting me know what the hell Josh was thinking.

( Collapse )  
Josh is happy. Toby and Sam just don't know it yet.

They seem to believe that Josh might be dreading the phone call he'll get as soon as the president announces his nominees to the FEC.

Are they nuts?

They've known the man longer than I have. Surely by now they know that this is exactly the sort of moment Josh lives for. He's standing to my left, and I'd like to observe -- in a completely objective manner, you understand -- that he's looking very handsome tonight. Black formal suit, crisp white shirt. For once, I am not ashamed to admit I work for him. You can tell, just by looking, that he's tense, but it's not a nervous tense. It's the other kind of tense -- tense as in drawing back a bow, preparing a weapon, setting a trap. Josh is a trap waiting to be sprung.

Toby and Sam, in the center of this line we've formed, are alternately bickering and offering what they think are helpful comments. Oddly enough, Josh and I are the quiet ones tonight.

The announcement is made, the phone rings, and I play my minor (but, I like to think, crucial) role in tonight's drama.

We spent hours in the office today, Josh and I, planning this one tiny moment. Do I answer the phone on the first ring or the second? Do I put the senator on hold, or do I hand the phone immediately to Josh? Even the smallest gesture, in politics, has significance.

Our final strategy: one ring.

If it's the senator, he won't be put on hold. If it's an aide, I will hum one chorus of the Minute Waltz before handing the phone to Josh.

And just to make sure that we don't ruin this brilliant strategy through mixed signals, we have a code. If I say, "Josh," it's the senator himself. If I say, "Joshua," it's the aide.

As for what Josh will tell the senator, he worked that out all on his own. Although he practiced several versions of his delivery with me this afternoon. He decided, and I agreed, that it sounds best with a slight emphasis on the last word.

One ring.

"Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff." (Yes, it's the cell phone. But "Josh Lyman's cell phone" hardly sounds intimidating, does it?)

It's the senator.

I walk to Josh's side and place the phone in his hand. "Josh," I say.

And then he moves apart from Toby, Sam and me. He is all swagger, all bravado, all pent up energy as he says the words that only I know are so carefully rehearsed. "Hi, Senator. Why don't you take your legislative agenda and shove it up your ass?"

With one fluid motion, he shuts off the phone, tosses it to me and makes a joke to Sam and Toby. He walks away, swaggering even more, if such a thing is possible. He is brash, conceited, belligerent and much too happy about getting the last word.

I have never loved him more.

* * *  
The more I think about this, the more I am convinced that romantic love is a colossal waste of time and effort. First of all, there's the business of finding someone -- the endless rounds of meeting guys, asking someone out and waiting to be asked out, getting dressed up and making small talk, only to discover that you never want to see this person again as long as you live.

And then--miracle of miracles!--you find someone. You find a reasonably attractive and intelligent someone. You could -- in fact, you often do -- spend your entire day with him and never get tired, never get bored, never wish you were anywhere besides in his company. You care so much for this person that you are willing to overlook his faults. His many, many faults.

This isn't one of those situations where you just met the guy and the faults you're willing to overlook now will drive you mad in a month. No, this is a man you've known for two years. You're intimately acquainted with how arrogant, brash and conceited he is. And you actually love him for that. You honestly believe you wouldn't love him as much if he didn't have those little character flaws.

Shouldn't that be the end? According to every movie you've ever seen, every book you've ever read, every fairy tale you were told in childhood, isn't that the end? If this were a sappy movie, you'd be Meg Ryan and he'd be Tom Hanks. The two of you would have some witty declaration of undying love, there'd be an embrace, the music would swell, and the credits would roll.

And they lived happily ever after.

Yeah, right. Welcome to the real world. In the real world, you had to go and fall for this brash, conceited, cocky jerk who doesn't love you back. Who has an unfortunate obsession with someone who isn't you. And even supposing he came to his senses, there are other obstacles. Really big obstacles. Hypothetical example: he could have a highly sensitive job. A job that involves things such as national security. And remember that he's brash, conceited -- have I mentioned hostile lately? So he makes enemies easily. Those enemies would be really grateful if he screwed up by doing something as stupid as having an affair with his personal assistant.  
Because, of course, that's who you are.

Well-meaning friends and co-workers point this out to you. They explain the consequences in such graphic terms that you have nightmares about bringing down the entire Bartlet administration because of what seemed at the time like an uncomplicated kiss under the mistletoe.

You realize you'd better remember every detail of that one little kiss because that's probably all you'll ever get.

So there you are, in love with a man who doesn't love you back and who would undoubtedly suffer dire consequences if he did. And this is where you realize that you've got it really bad, because you love him so much that the idea of his being hurt like that makes you glad he doesn't love you.

Obviously, you are a complete and total masochist.

What do you do in a situation like that?

No, seriously. What do you do?

Because I need an answer here, and I haven't got a clue.

* * *

Josh is going to be hurt. He just doesn't know it yet.

We're back in the West Wing now, walking toward the office. I'm walking, that is; Josh is strutting. Word has already spread, and everyone is congratulating him for the aplomb with which he handled the senator. 

Great. It's not like the man lacks for self-confidence already.

Josh, who is too damn pleased with himself, smiles at me. "You know," he says, "I think I have just passed into the realm of legend."

His smile may be conceited, but it's also contagious. "Legend, Joshua?"

"Years from now, White House staffers as yet unborn will continue to spread the legend of the deputy chief of staff who told a member of the United States Senate to take his legislative agenda and shove it up his ass."

You know in history class how you heard the story about the slave who was supposed to walk with the Roman emperor in processions and whisper in his ear, "Remember, Caesar, that thou art mortal?" Well, change "slave" to "personal assistant" and you have my role in this conversation.

"Of course, they'll also still be spreading the legend of your secret plan to fight inflation."

He grins and gives me the look that acknowledges my point. He also puts an arm around me and squeezes just a bit. Not a real hug, you understand. Between the lecture we both got in Leo's office after Christmas and the rather disjointed conversation I had with him in February about needing to draw some lines in our relationship, he is trying to do better. Still, he's Josh. He's a bundle of energy that usually expresses itself through physical movement.

I can't complain because I want that contact too. Most important, I don't want anything ruining this moment for him. He thrives on these kinds of battles -- and I want him to savor this victory while he can.  
Because I know what I have to tell him next.

About two months ago, Josh and I went to California with the president. We were among the White House staffers who attended a political fundraiser in L.A. Among the guests was a woman named Joey Lucas, whom Josh had met once before. Saying Josh had a crush on Joey Lucas is like saying that chocolate tastes good. The statement is accurate as far as it goes, but it hardly conveys the intensity of the experience. Joey Lucas, in my admittedly prejudiced opinion, flirted with Josh shamelessly. And when he went to say goodbye to her (at my instigation -- and can I just mention in my own defense that I'd had way too much champagne that evening?), he discovered that Joey was sleeping with someone else.

The name "Joey Lucas" has not been uttered between us since. I had hoped the incident was closed. However, I found out today that it's about to be reopened.

I know because Bonnie and Ginger told me.

This is, as far as I can figure out, the way it happened: Someone (probably the president or Leo) decided we needed a polling expert. Someone else (possibly Toby) decided on Al Kiefer. Al Kiefer suggested that we bring in a California expert, since part of that now legendary legislative agenda is the issue of English as the national language. Al Kiefer (on this point, everyone seems to agree) suggested Joey Lucas. Toby, knowing at least the highlights of the Josh-and-Joey saga, realized that Josh would not respond well to this news. And Toby, who despite his gruff exterior cannot bear causing his friends pain, leaked the news of Joey Lucas' imminent arrival to his assistants Bonnie and Ginger.

Now Bonnie and Ginger are extremely good at reading between the lines. They understood that their job was to pass this news along to someone who would in turn break the news to Josh. Someone like, say, Josh's personal assistant.

Of course, their timing sucked. I was in the ladies' room, changing from my business suit into something more appropriate for the dinner at which President Bartlet would be speaking. They tried to be offhand about it; I tried to act as though I was indifferent to the entire matter. No one was fooled.

As the individual most directly responsible for the care and feeding of Josh Lyman's ego, I had to make a quick decision. I put off telling him until after the president's speech.

I'll admit to feeling resentful about all this. I'll admit wanting to say to hell with Toby (and with Sam, who was undoubtedly part of this). I'll admit that I do not want to be there when Josh's heart is bruised again. And I certainly do not want to be the one to break the news. So I let him go back to his office for a few minutes before I tell him Toby wants to see him.

I come so close to sending him into Toby's office unprepared.

But then my conscience gets the better of me, and I run after him.

"The thing is--" I tell Josh, "and it's going to be interesting to see how you react to this -- but Kiefer wants to bring in a California expert."

He stops suddenly as the words "California expert" sink in. I confirm that, yes, it's Joey Lucas and that she'll be here tomorrow. Also that I was afraid to tell him. You can see he's thrown, and so we talk around the idea for a minute while he gets used to it. My role here is concerned friend, and I think I play it rather well. Certainly Josh doesn't seem to notice that I'm upset for reasons all my own.

Then he regains his poise. You can see the swagger come back into his walk as he takes what amounts to another victory lap through the bullpen. Unless you'd heard our conversation, you'd have no reason to suspect that anything was wrong.

Sometimes it is just too easy to love him.

* * *

So, like I was asking before, what do you do? You love him; he loves someone else; the whole thing is impossible.

We all know what you do, don't we? We've all seen the same movies and read the same books.

You suffer.

In silence.

You go home and you cry. You play the sappiest love songs you can find. God help you, you may actually find yourself pondering the lyrics of that awful song from Titanic.

Because, according to all the movies and the books and the sappy love songs, suffering works. You'll be cleansed and noble and pure of heart. He'll sense your suffering -- because underneath it all, he's a sensitive, caring guy -- and he'll love you for letting your world revolve around him.

Bullshit.

Here is what will really happen: your eyes will get bloodshot, you won't be able to function properly at work because you lost all that sleep while you were listening to Celine Dion, and your ability to reason will have been weakened by the platitudes in those songs.

As for him, why should he want you? What is so appealing about a red-eyed, half asleep, witless woman? Look in the mirror: would you want you?

Exactly.

So why should he?

* * *

Josh is excited. I'm not sure why yet.

He has come to my apartment this morning to pick me up for our breakfast meeting with Leo. Even though it's spring, there's just enough chill in the air to make sitting on my tiny balcony and sipping my morning coffee uncomfortable. Yet here I sit at 7 a.m., just so I can get my first glimpse of Josh before he sees me.

Have I reached the level of obsession or what?

Joey Lucas, as we all know, arrives today, and I want to judge Josh's mood. This is part of my job, after all. I need to know what Josh's state of mind is if I'm to be at my most efficient today.

Yeah, I know. I'm not even fooling myself.

I want to look. Just look. Stare at this infuriating, complicated man I have fallen for against my better judgment. Josh Lyman, eye candy. Why not? Don't I deserve to get a little pleasure out of this unfortunate mess?

And there, suddenly, he is. Some of yesterday's triumph is still with him. He's toned the swagger down a notch from last night, but it's still on display. The sun is behind him, and it gives him almost a halo effect. I take another sip of coffee and smirk. Josh Lyman with a halo. What's wrong with that picture?  
From the pace at which he's moving, you can tell he's having a good morning. He's eager to get to the West Wing. The question, of course, is why? Because he wants to continue the battle he started last night, or because he wants to see Joey Lucas again?

The skilled Josh watcher can find the answer by noticing his suit. It's that suit that gives everything away.  
Let me explain about Josh and his suits. Some men -- I've noticed a lot of them in DC -- put a great deal of time and effort into their wardrobe. They buy Armani. They read GQ. They make sure their clothes are freshly pressed. They never wear the same suit two days in a row.

Then there's Josh.

Josh does not pay attention to his wardrobe. Josh's wardrobe is, in fact, a disaster. Honestly. If I could get President Bartlet to take a look at it, I'm sure he'd declare a national emergency. We'd have the Joshua Lyman Clothing Disaster Relief Fund. At first, I thought I could handle this problem on my own. I've done a fairly good job of organizing the rest of his life; I could organize this. So I went to his apartment -- while he whined the entire time because I was doing him this huge favor that is not in my job description -- and I opened his closet door.

When I stopped screaming, I called one of those companies that comes over and organizes your closet for you. They assured me that, no matter how bad the problem was, they could fix it.

They took one look at the Closet of Doom and ran screaming into the night.

So instead of organizing Josh's existing wardrobe, I took him shopping. Getting him into the store was a project all its own. According to Josh, shopping is what they make you do in the seventh circle of hell. I, on the other hand, had fun. It was like having a life-sized, anatomically correct Ken doll to play with. I finally picked three suits he looked really good in and sent him home with orders to wear them only under special circumstances -- State of the Union, TV appearances, that kind of thing. Amazingly, he's been pretty good about following my orders.

He's wearing one his three good suits today. We have nothing special on the schedule. I know, because I keep a copy of Josh's schedule in my apartment. (He's always calling me at home and asking me about it.) The only unusual event scheduled for today is the arrival of the California polling expert.

Joey Lucas.

He is wearing one of his three good suits for Joey Lucas.

Unfortunately, my balcony is too high for me to be able to spill coffee on him in any effective kind of way.

"Morning, Josh," I call down. It doesn't bother me in the least. Really. It doesn't.

"Donnatella Moss," he says.

"Nice threads, Joshua." See how much I am not bothered?

He's looking up, grinning like the lovestruck bastard he is. "Get down here, would you? Looking up at you like this makes me feel as though I'm in some half-assed junior high production of Romeo and Juliet."

Now there's a challenge for you. Luckily, I'm up to it.

"Joshua, Joshua, Joshua," I declaim dramatically. (I played Beatrice in my college production of Much Ado About Nothing. Bet you didn't know that, did you?) "Wherefore art thou Joshua? Deny office policy and refuse thy generous government pension. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love and I'll no longer refuse to bring thee coffee."

I'm rather proud of that speech. Completely spontaneous.

"You know," he says, "they told me I was hiring a crazy person, but did I listen?"

"I could do the entire balcony scene for you. I know all the lines. Both parts."

"You want to get your ass down here now, Gwyneth?"

"That's the problem with the American public -- no appreciation for the classics." I run back inside, grab my purse and a notebook and practically skip down the steps to meet him.

That's how bad I've got it. He got dressed up to impress some other woman, and I'm just happy I'm having breakfast with him and four other people.

Once downstairs, I give myself a treat: I move in close enough to touch, and I lightly finger the lapels of his suit. "One of your good outfits," I observe.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. It's just that I thought this was a regular Tuesday."

"It is."

"And yet you have on your special suit."

"It's not a special suit. And it's just a regular Tuesday."

I'm so cheery I make myself want to puke. "Oh, I think there's a reason you're wearing your special suit, Josh."

"Don't push it, Donna."

"I'm just saying."

He stops walking, turns on me and says, "I mean it. Don't push."

You can't win with Josh. You try to be perky and supportive when you're feeling miserable because he's  
wearing his good suit for a woman who already broke his heart, and he snaps at you. I get in his car, and we drive to the restaurant in silence.

Margaret and Leo are already at the restaurant when we get there. Toby and Sam are on their way. I will not let anyone see how miserable I am. I am perky with a vengeance.

"You should note that Josh has on a nice suit," I say.

"Donna," he warns.

"We'll call it his Joey Lucas suit. You know, from now on."

And we're off. Even Margaret gets into the act. The discussion of mandatory minimum sentences for drug offenders is peppered with commentary over whether Josh is wearing a special suit for Joey Lucas or whether he's wearing his regular Tuesday suit. Everyone is amused, except for Josh. And possibly Leo, who doesn't understand any of it.

At some point, the discussion moves from mandatory minimums to English as the national language. There is much talk, led rather too enthusiastically by Josh, about the importance of the California polling numbers and how much help Joey Lucas will be. I look at my eggs and find that my appetite is gone.

I really am beginning to regret not having ordered the waffles.

* * *

This, of course, brings us to the subject of food. Women nursing broken hearts take one of two extreme attitudes toward food. Have you noticed?

The first attitude is the "I fell in love and lost my appetite" strategy. Women who follow this strategy also tend to believe in the "suffering makes you noble" line of reasoning. If you stop eating, this philosophy maintains, you can have the advantage of wearing your suffering on your body. If those red-rimmed eyes didn't get him, the loss of ten or fifteen pounds will bring him running. You could, under extreme circumstances, end up with a lifelong eating disorder as well. Listen to me carefully: no man is worth that.

Certainly not Joshua Lyman.

And I know what you're thinking. Yes, it's true; I am pretty thin already. It is not, however, from starving myself. Ask the aforementioned Mr. Lyman, who will gladly tell you that I get very, very cranky if he suggests that I miss a meal.

No, mine is strategy number two: comfort food. As far as I'm concerned, there are two men -- and two men only -- who will never betray you. Their names are Ben and Jerry. Spend quality time with them. They are the best friends you will find in your time of sorrow.

And don't skimp: No fat free, sugar free stuff for you at a time like this. You need chocolate . Lots of chocolate. Personally, I recommend Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream, followed as necessary by Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Chunky Monkey will do in a pinch, but at a time like this you'll get very little comfort from Cherry Garcia.

Keep chocolate bars in your desk for emergencies. If you don't have access to Godiva, try Cadbury. In the greater DC area, you can find a substantial line of Cadbury chocolate at this nice little newsstand about three blocks from the White House.

Tell them the attractive blonde who's always complaining about her boss sent you.

* * *

My car's in the shop again, which is why I'm relying on Josh for transportation this morning. I tell him to stop at the newsstand so I can pick up his morning supply of newspapers. I emerge ten minutes later with all the major metropolitan dailies from around the country and with a large shopping bag.

I place the shopping bag between us. As we're waiting for a light to change, Josh takes a peak into the bag.  
"Big date after the speech last night, huh?" he asks.

"What?"

"After two years, I know the signs. Another local gomer broke your heart."

"I wouldn't say broke. I also wouldn't call him a local gomer."

"He's not worth it, Donna."

"You don't even know who he is."

"I know that you deserve better than some guy who's going to drive you to one of your chocolate binges."

"Your concern is touching."

"Well, if you're busy feeding your face, you're not going to get any work done. It's purely self-interest on my part."

"Speaking of work--" God, I don't want to mention this. "Where do we put your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend, and what do you mean where do we put her?"

"Leo's going to want her on our side of the building."

"You'll find room. Just make sure it's some place nice, okay?"

"All the nice places are on Toby's side of the building." It's an old argument. Josh slept late the day we went to the West Wing to look for office space, despite my repeated phone calls urging him to get his ass in gear. Consequently, Toby, Sam and CJ called dibs on the good offices before Josh was even in the building. Thus, the deputy chief of staff, his personal assistant and the half dozen staffers who work for us are crowded into the smallest, drabbest area in the building. Josh says that maybe we can do something about this after re-election. Unless someone decides to build an addition onto what is probably the most famous building in the U.S., I doubt it.

"Kenny will probably need a desk too," Josh says.

For some reason, having to provide office space for Kenny the interpreter is the last straw. "There is no space," I say. "There literally is no space into which Joey Lucas, her interpreter and all her stuff will fit. Quit expecting me to do things that cannot possibly be done."

Josh turns toward me, and God help me if he hasn't chosen this of all moments to be sweet-guy Josh. "He really hurt you, huh?"

"Yes, Josh, he really hurt me."

"He's scum," Josh says knowingly.

"And you would know this because--?"

"I would know this because he hurt you."

"He's not scum, Josh," I answer. I pause for a second and add, "And I'll find some office space for Joey Lucas. I refuse to give Kenny more than a chair, however."

* * *

The other woman. Now here, I think is where things get really complicated. Think about it: This is the woman he wants, the woman you're not. Hard not to hate her, right? And yet you admire this man; you admire his fire, his wit, his intelligence.

You just think he has really bad taste in women.

But if he's so witty and intelligent, how can you think his taste in women will be bad? I mean, other than the fact that she's not you, what's wrong with her?

Okay, maybe she has character flaws. Maybe, for instance, she slept with one man while flirting with another. But you don't know the details, do you? So you shouldn't be jumping to conclusions.

However, she's the other woman, so you jump to all kinds of conclusions anyway.

Here's the thing: if she weren't the other woman, maybe you'd like her. Maybe you'd get to be buddies, friends, pals. You might find that you have something in common; after all, you already share the same taste in men.

Then again, maybe you'd dislike her no matter who she was dating.

And her little interpreter too.

* * *

Yes, folks, it's the moment we've all been waiting for: Joey Lucas has arrived. Oh joy unending.  
From my perspective, she could not have arrived at a worse moment. I'm up to my elbows (literally) in old files I'm attempting to transfer in order to give Joey Lucas some space. I'm covered with dust from the old desk I've commandeered from the basement, and my hair got mussed up in the process as well. So, of course, Joey Lucas is not looking at all like she took the red-eye from L.A.

And I'm the one who lectures Josh on appearance.

I usher Joey and Kenny into Josh's office after the usual insincere pleasantries and send someone off to the Oval Office to get Josh.

The Oval Office.

That's where Josh is. He's in a meeting with the President of the United States in the Oval Office. It doesn't get any more important than that.

And yet Josh gets back here at what I can only call record speed. If his name were Clark Friggin' Kent, he could not have gotten here any faster.

I don't stick around to find out what he says to her. I have no desire to hear it. I just see the look on his face -- excited, delighted, happy -- and I want to be anywhere else.

I don't go far enough away, however. I hear the end of the conversation. The entire bullpen hears the end of the conversation. In a ringing voice, Kenny shouts, "I'm not sleeping with Al Kiefer any more."

As much as I'd like to convince myself that Kenny has chosen this moment to come out of the closet, it's clear he's speaking for Joey. All action stops. Most people turn around to look at Josh and Joey. A few people turn to glance at me, and I think I see pity on some faces. Dear God, is it that obvious?

There is literally no one I don't hate.

* * *

He wants to talk about her. That is all he wants to talk about. You're his friend; you're female. Great time for him to finally notice, huh? He wants your opinion about how to win her heart.

Do not get involved in that conversation.

Just don't.

* * *

We're supposed to have a working lunch. I sent out for sandwiches. I've looked forward to this moment all day. I've been sharpening my bantering skills in preparation.

"So Joey's settling in okay, don't you think?" That is the very first thing he says.

"Honestly, Josh, I hadn't noticed."

"Cause last time I went to check on her--"

"You've been checking on her?"

"It seemed like the thing to do."

"It wasn't, Josh. It really wasn't."

He looks worried.

"Josh," I ask, "do you remember California? Do you remember that at all?"

"Apparently, Donna, you were the only person in the West Wing who didn't hear that--"

"She's not sleeping around any more. Yeah, I heard."

"She wasn't sleeping around. She was never sleeping around. What is your problem?"

Now isn't it obvious what my problem is? Even if you'd never met us before and you heard my admittedly catty remarks here, couldn't you guess?

You want to be really frightened? This singularly clueless man helps run the nation.

Explains a lot, doesn't it?

"I have no problem, Josh. I simply have a different interpretation. She was sleeping with Kiefer; now she's dumping him for you. I just--"

"You really think so?"

"What?"

"Do you really think Joey dumped Kiefer for me?" He's grinning. Of course he's grinning. It's another Lyman victory, friends. The man does like to win; doesn't really matter at what.

"That is so not the issue, Josh."

He shakes his head. He's got that look on his face. See, I'm supposed to be the pal who tells him all the secret girl codes so he can discover where he stands with Joey Lucas. I'm not playing the role he's assigned me, and that upsets him.

"What is the matter with you today?" he asks.

For a minute, I consider telling him. I consider saying, "Joshua Lyman, you clueless dope, I happen to be in love with you." Just, you know, to see what kind of reaction I'd get.

But what's the point? He doesn't love me back and all that would happen is that I'd ruin the relationship we have now.

"I'm sorry, Josh," I say, "but I have a lot on my mind right now. I don't want to talk about Joey Lucas. Now are we going to work or not? Because I have plenty of other things I could be doing."

He waves me out the door. I've almost made my escape when he calls me back. "Donna?"

"What?"

"Is this about that guy?"

"What guy?"

"The guy you went out with last night?"

"Yeah, Josh, it's about that guy."

"He doesn't deserve you, Donnatella."

Could the man be any more witless if he worked at it? I'm asking seriously, could he?

"Oh, I don't know, Josh," I say. "You don't know this guy as well as I do. I think he deserves me. I think he deserves me just so I can make the rest of his life hell on earth."

Josh laughs. It's a glorious sound. "That's my girl," he says.

If only.

* * *

Now we come to the subject of friends. When you are heartbroken, friends can be a comfort. They can listen to you pour out your heart; they can give advice both of you know you'll never follow; they can tell you they never liked him anyway and he was never good enough for you.

So relying on your friends is all to the good.

There's a down side here too, remember. Friends may tell you a few home truths -- things you do not want to hear. They're looking at things from a different perspective, and you may not like what they have to say.

So be careful whom you decide to bond with.

* * *

I go into the ladies' room. On my agenda: screaming at the top of my lungs. Also throwing things.

I open the door and am nearly hit by a flying soap dish.

"Oh my god, Donna," CJ says. "Are you okay?"

"Fine." I pick the soap dish up off the floor. "Stand back, will you?" The soap dish careens off the wastebasket with a satisfying amount of noise.

CJ and I exchange looks.

"Danny?" I ask.

She nods. "Josh, I presume?"

"Of course."

"That patronizing, egotistical, misogynistic bastard," CJ says.

"Danny or Josh?"

"Both."

"What did Danny do?" I ask.

CJ dismisses Danny with a wave of her hand. "He just demonstrated another in a long line of reasons it would never work. How about Josh?"

"Joey Lucas," I reply. "He's obsessing."

CJ gives me that look she has--the one that means she's measuring the situation. "Come with me," she says.  
We go to her office and shut the door.

"I know you don't want to hear this," she says, "but it's my job to say it."

"You said it at Christmas, CJ; I got the message then."

"No," she says. "No, Donna, I don't think you did. Strange as it is to say, I think Josh was the one who got the message."

"Josh and I together, bad idea," I say. "We're a PR disaster waiting to happen. See? Message received."

"You cannot have him, Donna. I'm sorry, but that's how it has to be. You. Can't. Have. Josh." She speaks those four words just like that, determined to make the message stick.

"I could quit," I say. "There are other jobs." All this is moot, of course, because of Joey Lucas. But I've thought through those options, and I want CJ to understand that.

She shakes her head. "First of all, the fact that you were ever Josh's assistant lends an air of impropriety to your relationship, no matter where you're working. Second, I doubt Josh would let you go."

"Well, he'd have to, wouldn't he? If I quit."

"He'd use every means of persuasion available to him to get you to stay. Every means. This is Josh we're talking about, and we both know he can fight dirty when he has to."

"He lives for it," I agree.

"And, boy, does he have the means to fight dirty with you." She pauses again and adds for effect,  
"Donnatella."

"You know," CJ continues, "the part of Josh that loves a fight would relish something this personal. He could fight as dirty as he likes while still claiming the moral high ground. And, yes, he'd take some hits. He might very well lose his career in politics. More likely though, he'd walk away with just minor bruises. The deputy chief of staff or his personal assistant. His female personal assistant. Who do you think would suffer most in that battle?"

"What if I thought he was worth it?" I ask.

CJ shakes her head sadly. "This administration still suffers. President Bartlet, Leo, Toby, Sam -- they all suffer. Every woman who works in this administration would have to deal with dirty jokes and innuendo in the press, all because you and Josh Lyman couldn't keep your hands off each other."

And that's the thing that makes talking to CJ uncomfortable sometimes: when she's right, dammit, she's right.

"Doesn't matter," I say. "He's got this thing for Joey Lucas."

"I know," CJ says. She sounds so sad, like she's really sorry for me. "But I also know that you could stop it in a minute if you wanted to."

I could?

"How?"  
"Go in there and plant one on him, Donna," CJ says. "It's as simple as that."

"Except for the political ramifications," I say.

"Except for those," CJ agrees.

We're quiet for a minute, then CJ adds, "She's a good person, Donna. Who knows? She could be just what he needs. She stands up to him, instead of falling for the infamous Lyman charisma. At least give him a chance with her."

"All they do is argue," I protest.

CJ laughs. She has this magnificent laugh, and I feel myself smiling sincerely for the first time today. "And we all know what a turnoff that is for Josh Lyman," she says. "I can't tell you what to do, Donna," she adds, "but my job is to make sure you understand that things between you and Josh can never be just personal. Not while we're in the White House."

I thank CJ for the advice and turn to go. That's when I remember something. "CJ," I say, "what did you mean when you said that Josh was the one who got the message at Christmas?"

"I mean that's how much he loves you, even if he doesn't realize it," she says. "So far, he's actually been able to walk away from what would be the biggest political fight of his career because he knows you'd be the one destroyed."

"Let him have Joey Lucas," she says softly. "Your job is to take care of him, and that's the best way you can do that right now."

* * *  
It's late afternoon, the garage just called, and for once in my life I intend to get out of here at a decent hour. I head toward the office space I found for Joey Lucas.

"Josh," I say. Because, of course, that's where he is. "The garage called. My car's ready."

He is engaged in another thrilling debate on English as the national language. Strike that: he's debating. Joey Lucas, who was brought to DC specifically to provide a position on English as the national language, is arguing that the Republicans will not even put the issue on the table and thus no position is necessary.  
Gee, if we don't need a position on English as the national language, there's nothing for her to do, is there? I guess that her job here is done. Bye, Joey. Have a nice trip back to California.

Unfortunately, Josh doesn't point this out to her. Instead, he looks at me absentmindedly.

"Whatever," he says.

"Josh," I say, "you promised to drive me to the garage."

"Oh, right. Well, I'm kind of in the middle of something here."

All right, call me self-centered. Yes, I'm aware that my boss is arguably the third most important man in the Bartlet administration. (On this side of the building, we like to ignore Hoynes.) I know he has much more important things to do than take his assistant to the garage. I wouldn't even think of asking if he were with Leo or President Bartlet. But all he's doing is having a pointless argument with Joey Lucas.

Besides, he promised. He gave me a long lecture last week about how auto mechanics see a woman -- "a young and not unattractive blonde" were his exact words -- and jack up the price. He made a very big deal about how much I needed his advice.

That, of course, was before we knew Joey Lucas was coming back to town.

"You promised, Josh," I say.

Kenny is signing furiously. I'm just paranoid enough to wonder what he's really saying.

"Can't they deliver the car here?" Josh asks. "It's not like we're a hard address to locate."

"They know the address," I answer. "They also refuse to fight the traffic on DuPont circle this time of day."

Josh looks up and, for a second, he looks conflicted. Then he arrives at an answer.

"Call them back. Tell them the IRS works for your boss."

This is Josh's all-purpose threat. It's surprisingly effective too.

More furious signing from Joey and Kenny.

"That's coercion," Kenny says for Joey. "It's clearly an abuse of power."

Who invited her into my private conversation with Josh?

"Never mind," I say. "I'll get a cab."

"A cab's too expensive." Concerned-guy Josh has made a sudden reappearance. "Why don't you ask Bonnie or Ginger or somebody for a ride?"

Before I have a chance to respond, Kenny butts in. "I'll be happy to help you, Ms. Moss," he says. "We can go in my rental car."

Oh joy. Giving directions to an out-of-towner. During rush hour. Through DuPont Circle. And I'll have to guide him back here when what I want to do is go home.

"No, thanks," I say. I'd leave except Josh is suddenly excited about this idea.

"This works," he says. "This is an answer."

"If Kenny goes with me, how will you talk to Joey?"

Josh looks momentarily puzzled. He does that cute crinkly forehead thing. "You know," he says, "I'm really going to have to learn sign language."

Just kill me now.

* * *

You want to think the worst about the other woman, don't you? You want to think that she's a combination of Jezebel, Lucretia Borgia and Cruella deVil. Unfortunately, she's not. She's just a woman. She's got character flaws like everyone else, but she's got her good points as well. You know that.

Rationally, you know that.

You hate her anyway.

She may try to be your friend (because you know him better than anyone and she wants to get in good with you). 

She may do you little favors.

Avoid her.

Avoid her friends.

Don't accept the favors.

You're going to come off as a bitch no matter how hard you try. And that's just not good for anyone.

* * *

I feel the need to apologize for rush hour traffic in DC.

"This is nothing," Kenny says. His own voice is not pitched much lower than his Joey Lucas voice. It's disconcerting, as though I'm having a conversation with her. Imagine my joy. "L.A. traffic is much, much worse."

I try to imagine worse than this. My mind just doesn't want to go there. I struggle for a new topic of conversation. "So how long does Joey think you guys will be in town?"

"She hasn't really said," Kenny replies. "I imagine it depends on Josh."

I imagine so too, but it isn't something I want to hear.

But Kenny, who is presumably attuned to all sorts of nonverbal cues, spending the day as he does among the deaf, ignores the signals I'm sending. "They make a cute couple, don't you think?" he asks.

I dig around in my purse until I find a Cadbury Hazelnut bar. "No, I don't," I reply. "She couldn't be more wrong for him."

Kenny looks at me in surprise. I have come to the conclusion, snarky as it is, that Kenny's is not the brightest bulb in the socket.

"Why do you think that?" He's on a fact-finding mission. I work in politics; I understand these things.

"She's not his type," I offer.

"What is his type?"

"Have you met Mandy Hampton yet?"

"Mandy," Kenny says. You can see the wheels turning as he tries to connect the name with all the people he's met today. "Short woman, dark curly hair?" he asks.

"That's Mandy," I agree.

"She and Josh had a thing?"

"During the campaign."

"So she's his type."

"Not even close."

"Then why--"

"She wasn't his type, and they broke up. It was unpleasant. Josh was hurt." I narrow my eyes at Kenny and hope he gets the message. "I don't like it when Josh is hurt. He's difficult to work with when he's hurt.  
Even more difficult than usual, I mean. When somebody hurts Josh, I get hostile. And I learned hostile from Josh."

Kenny looks confused, so it's a good thing we've reached the garage. I jump out of the car and mutter a quick thanks.

"Wait," Kenny says. "I assumed you would show me the way back to the office."

"Sorry," I say. "No time. Big date. But you can't miss the office. It's that big white house on Pennsylvania Avenue."

My big date, of course, is with Ben & Jerry.

Joey Lucas is just not bringing out my better qualities.

* * *

Now here's a conundrum for you: What do you do when he turns to you for dating advice? Because, of course, you're trying to act as though you don't care. (Unless, of course, you opted for the whole "suffering is noble" strategy, in which case there is really nothing more I can say to you.)

You can play the role of concerned friend. You can listen and nod wisely in the appropriate places. The really effective strategy here, however, is to just pretend to listen. While he talks, do something else. Make your grocery list up in your head. Think about polishing your resume. Recite song lyrics to yourself. Not the sappy Celine Dion variety; given your state of mind, I'd head straight for Alanis Morrisette.

Whatever you do, don't listen closely. You don't need the grief.

* * *

I am losing my roommate. The lease, which thankfully is in my name, is up in a month and then she's out of here. I can't say I'll miss her, but she's taking the cats.

This is the news I came home to this evening. According to Candi (Yes, that's her name. As Josh said, "Candi? With an 'I'? Are you sure she doesn't know Sam's friend Laurie?"), she can no longer take my erratic hours, my controlling personality or the frequent visits from my drunken boss.

No great loss. Except for the cats. Candi and I never bonded. I think she's a Republican. But I'm going to have a difficult time either paying the rent or finding a roommate I can stand.

I'm going to miss those cats.

What with this bombshell and my lousy day at work, all I want is to get a good night's sleep. I note with satisfaction the fact that I have not yet reached the point where I am losing sleep over Joshua Lyman and climb into bed at 11:30.

My phone rings at 2:45. Three guesses who it is.

"Please tell me we're bombing Iraq," I say. "Please tell me there's a legitimate national emergency, and you're not just calling me to give me the latest installment in the Joey Lucas saga."

"I thought you cared," he said. "What happened to 'gather ye rosebuds, Josh' and all that?"

"At 2:45 a.m., I don't care whose rosebuds you were gathering."

"But I need your advice."

"About Joey Lucas?"

"Well, yes."

"All right, but keep it short. I need my rest."

"I gave her a coffee mug," he says.

"I must be more tired than I thought. I thought I heard you say you gave her a coffee mug."

"I did. A White House coffee mug."

"Where did you get a stupid idea like that, Josh?"

"Charlie."

"Charlie Young?"

"Yes."

"You're taking dating advice from teenagers?"

"Charlie's not a teenager. He's twenty-one."

"Still."

"So you think my giving Joey a coffee mug was a bad idea?" he asks.

"Most women prefer candy or flowers."

"Because I have to tell you, overall, I think it went well. I think we shared a moment."

"If it went so well, why are you calling me?"

"I just wanted your opinion."

"My opinion is that I need more sleep."

"You're still upset about the guy from last night, aren't you?"

"Believe me when I tell you that I'm getting over him pretty fast."

"That's good."

"Good night, Joshua."

"Good night, Donnatella."

* * *

What you discover as time goes on is that it is difficult to maintain a state of crisis. Life, good old ordinary life, proceeds whether your heart is broken or not. You still have to pay the bills, go to work, wash the dishes, do the laundry; you don't have time to be self-indulgent.

Every once in a while, however, you should make the time to be self-indulgent.

It's important to be good to yourself.

* * *

This is how things go for the next week: I get into the office before Josh every day. Not once do I arrive at the West Wing to find him sleeping with his head propped on his desk. He wears his good suits. He never wears the same suit two days in a row. He does not bellow "Donnatella Moss!" at the top of his lungs half a dozen times a day. He doesn't say "Donnatella" at all. Whenever he speaks to me -- and it's not often, not nearly often enough -- I am "Donna." I figure that if Joey Lucas hangs around for another week, I'll be demoted to "Ms. Moss."

I get quite a bit of work done this week because I do not have to chase around the building trying to locate Josh. I always know where he is. He's with Joey Lucas.

We don't have working lunches any more. He takes Joey Lucas to lunch. Also dinner. Hell, Kenny's seeing more of Josh than I am.

Josh does not talk to me very much these days. There is no banter, no arguing, no laughing.

I tell myself it's the polling. Everyone's going crazy waiting for the results of this poll. But the problem started before the polling. And there's been polling before. I usually sit in Josh's office and wait for the results with him.

This time, it's Joey Lucas he's with.

They are still arguing about English as the national language. Joey, you see, has still not developed her counter position. You will recall that she was brought here specifically to work on this counter argument. She, however, continues merely to insist that the issue will not be raised.

How irresponsible is that?

She was brought here by the President of the United States in order to construct an answer to one issue. No one asked her to come here and argue endlessly about whether the issue would be raised.

Yes, I'm bitter. I admit it. I'm also lonely. Let's add sexually frustrated to that list too, as long as we're at it.

Mostly, I just want things to be the way they've always been between Josh and me.

God, I miss bantering.

I try. I give him openings. I tell him about the Federated States of Micronesia. "It's located 2500 miles southwest of Hawaii, where you've never taken me," I say.

"When was I supposed to take you to Hawaii?" he asks.

Oh good, I think. A reply. We're going to be us again. We'll have fun.

"Any time," I answer. "It's something bosses do."

I wait for his reply. When I don't get one right away, I start rattling off facts about Hawaii. I can't help it; I have a mind that stores these little pieces of trivia away and recalls them at the oddest moments.

You'd be surprised how many people in this building have minds like that.

When Josh still doesn't reply -- when, in fact, he tells me to be quiet -- I'm not upset. He's preoccupied with watching CJ's briefing. I'm standing next to him in his office, and I realize this is the closest I've been to him all week. We're so close already that we're practically touching, and I remember what CJ said about how I could end all this nonsense with Joey Lucas by just grabbing Josh and kissing him.

I remember what kissing Josh feels like. I remember those few seconds before CJ walked in on us in this very room on Christmas Eve. I remember that I thought how amazing it was that the man could kiss even better than he could talk.

Of course, I don't have any convenient excuse this time. It's not a major holiday; there's no mistletoe. If I kissed him, how could I explain it? "Sorry, Josh, all that talk about mandatory minimums got me hot and bothered"? I don't think he'd buy that one.

But still, he's standing so close to me that I can feel this, I don't know, this energy that exists between us. And I turn away from the TV for just a second, and I see the strangest thing. I see Joshua Lyman looking at me like he's never seen me before.

Like he's just noticed that I'm, you know, female.

And like he's also remembered everything that CJ and Leo said at Christmas.

He looks, right now, sadder than I've ever seen him.

He finally speaks, and it's not banter about Hawaii.

"When I kissed you," he says, "that wasn't just about the mistletoe."

"It wasn't?" And I'm thinking that we shouldn't even be saying this. We shouldn't even acknowledge that it happened.

"And that night in California?" he says.

"Yes?" Josh and me, we are all about words. What is wrong with us that we're suddenly talking around the issues? Why can't either one of us just come out and say what we're thinking?

"What I meant to -- what I wanted -- I should have said--"

And then the door opens. Again.

"I'm buying a lock for this door," Josh mutters. "I swear to God I am buying a lock."

This time it isn't CJ. It's Joey and Kenny.

She looks at Josh and at me curiously, and I have the feeling she's wondering exactly what my history with Josh is.

I make up some lame excuse about needing to find Margaret, and I leave.

By the time I've stopped blushing, Josh and Joey have taken the argument back to Joey's office. I sit down at my desk and try to sort things out. I need to leave. I need distance between myself and Josh . I call Becky in Human Resources, and I leave a note on Josh's coffee mug where he'll see it first thing in the morning.

* * *

Sooner or later, you'll be tempted to leave. There are obvious cases in which leaving is clearly called for -- abusive relationships, for example. For the most part, however, deciding when and whether to leave is more tricky than it sounds. I mean, what can you do? Move to a new city every time your heart is broken just to get a fresh start? Take a new job whenever you discard an old love? Never talk to your friends again because they're his friends too? That's not practical, is it?

Still, sometimes a small vacation is in order. Just, you know, to give yourself time to reach a decision.

What you need at a time like this is a pre-emptive sick day.

* * *

I am taking a pre-emptive sick day. I can feel a cold coming on. I'm sure I caught it from Josh.

The thing I am most looking forward to? Sleeping in. No alarm clock. No early morning traffic. No leaving for the office just as Katie Couric is signing on.

So of course the first phone call comes at 7:30 a.m.

If I let it ring, he'll go away and I can go back to sleep.

I count six rings and realize he is not going away. Typical. I pick up the phone on the seventh ring.

"Donnatella," he says. I've been "Donna" all week, so he must want something. Bastard. I'm not going in to the office, however, and that's it.

"Josh, I'm sick--"

"You weren't sick yesterday." Which prohibits my becoming sick today. Damn, how can I argue with that brilliant Ivy League logic of his?

"The bacteria were gestating." Top that, Lyman.

"Excuse me?"

"It takes fourteen days for the germs that cause the common cold to gestate, Josh," I explain.

"And this has what to do with you not being at work?"

"Two weeks ago you had a runny nose and an annoying cough." See? It is completely his fault.

"An annoying cough? I don't recall an annoying cough."

"I sit three feet from your door, Josh; it was an annoying cough."

"Donna--"

"I'm getting to it. It's been two weeks and I don't have the time to get sick right now, so I'm taking a pre-emptive sick day."

"A pre-emptive sick day?"

"Yes, you know, like a pre-emptive strike? I'm attacking the cold before it attacks me."

"Donna."

"Yes?"

"I don't think the government gives paid pre-emptive sick days. I think you have to actually, you know, be sick."

"So we'll call it a personal day."

"Donna!"

"What? I'm looking after my person."

"You're supposed to be here looking after my person."

Yeah, right. Like he doesn't have Joey Lucas to do that for him. I am, however, remarkably reasonable in my response. "Didn't Becky send you a floater? I told her yesterday--"

"Wait. You told Human Resources yesterday, but you didn't tell me?"

"I did tell you."

"When did you tell me?"

"Well, 'tell' might be the wrong word, implying, as it does, direct contact between the teller and the tellee--"

"Donna."

"I left you a note."

"A note?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"On your coffee mug."

There is a great deal of noise on the other end of the line, indicating that Josh is rummaging around his desk in an attempt to find said coffee mug.

"You certainly did," he finally says.

"Josh--"

"You realize that even had I found this, I would have been unable to decipher it?"

"Josh."

"You couldn't really have just called my cell phone?"

"When?"

"Yesterday. You know, when you were informing the rest of the White House."

"You were in a meeting."

"Last night?"

"Yes."

"No, I wasn't," he says. Liar.

"With Joey Lucas."

"I was in her office fifty yards away from your desk, arguing with her for many, many hours. Trust me when I say your call would have been a welcome diversion."

"So noted," I say. I'm not talking about Joey Lucas, and that's it. "I've got to go."

"What? Do you have an appointment?"

"No, it's time for my Echinacea."

I hang up the phone, wondering how long till he'll feel the need to call me back.

It's a nice morning, relaxing. I sit on my balcony with my morning cup of coffee and a copy of the Post. I turn to the classifieds, not sure whether I should be looking for a job or an apartment.

The thing is that I'd hate to lose this apartment. It's a nice place, and I'd have a tremendous amount of space if I didn't need a roommate for financial reasons. And it's a great neighborhood. I hate the thought of moving.

One hour later, the phone rings. I'm still looking at the classifieds; I've circled a dozen promising apartment ads.

"What is it this time, Josh?"

"I can't find my tie."

"Your WHAT?"

"The tie that goes with my -- my Tuesday suit. I know I took it off in here, and I can't find it."

"This wouldn't concern me even if I were in the office."

"But you'd know where it was. You always know where my stuff is, Donna."

"Have you tried asking Joey Lucas?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm just suggesting that if you are missing the tie that goes to that particular suit, which we all know is not your regular Tuesday suit so just stop lying about that because you're completely not fooling anyone, then most likely you were in the vicinity of Joey Lucas when the tie came off."

"Okay, somewhere in all that I'm sure there was an actual sentence. I'm also fairly sure you were implying something."

"All I'm saying is that I don't know where your tie is. I also don't care where your tie is. Now can I go back to looking through the apartment ads?"

"Apartment ads? Why are you looking through apartment ads?"

"Josh, don't you have, like, a government to help run?"

"Yes, but I need an assistant to help me with that. Also a tie."

"You have a temp. And I don't know where your tie is."

"So why are you looking at apartment ads?"

"Because my roommate is moving out."

"Great! Is she taking the cats?"

"Josh, it's not great. I have to find a cheaper apartment. I can't afford this one without a roommate."

"Then advertise for another roommate."

"No. I cannot go through that again, Josh. Not while I'm working for you."

"What do I have to do with it?"

"Joshua, you vetted my roommate!"

"I didn't want some axe murderer moving in with you. It's always the unsuspecting friend who gets killed in that sort of situation. Didn't you see Single White Female? I was just protecting myself."

"Well, I'm going to find a smaller apartment. I'm tired of having a roommate anyway."

"I thought you loved your apartment."

"I do. I also love being able to buy groceries."

"What you need," Josh says, as though this is a completely original thought he's just had, "is a raise."

"Gee, why have I never thought of that?"

"I'll talk to Leo."

"You will?"

"Well, I don't want you moving to some dump."

"Josh?"

"Yeah?"

"Filing cabinet, third drawer. Look under 't.'"

And this is the way my day goes. Phone calls from Josh every hour on the hour. On the half hour, I get phone calls from a temp named Tasha Warner. Her calls get increasingly incoherent. I swear by 3 p.m., the woman is babbling. I keep telling her to talk back to him; otherwise, he'll walk all over her. But does she listen? I hate to sound unsympathetic, but she keeps talking about needing to show respect for "Mr. Lyman's" position. If you're going to take that attitude with Josh, you're just asking for trouble.

So my day off isn't that relaxing. Or even that Josh- free.

* * *

Once you've reached the point where you're sick of being heartbroken and miserable and you've discovered that just walking out on him isn't going to end the obsession you've got, what do you do? You're ready to move on, but how do you do it? Don't you need some kind of resolution?

This is another big difference between real life and the movies. There are no last minute declarations, no closing credits with lush theme music (and if there were, Celine Dion would probably be doing the singing and God knows you're sick of her). There's just little stuff. You'd be surprised what a difference the little stuff can make, however.

* * *

"Donnatella Moss!"

I haven't even taken off my coat when Josh starts bellowing from his office.

He looks awful. Worse than usual. He's obviously spent the night in the office, and he is beyond ruffled.

"Josh, you need to go home and change clothes."

"You left me."

"You have a 10 o'clock meeting with the President of the United States, and I am not sending you into the Oval Office looking like that."

"You left me to take a sick day when you weren't even sick, and I got stuck with the temp from hell."

"I've met Tasha Warner, Josh. She's a very nice person."

"No, she was not a nice person. She complained about my filing system--"

"Technically, it's my filing system, and you've been known to complain about it yourself."

"Not the filing cabinet filing system. My personal filing system. On my desk."

"That's not a filing system, Josh. That's just a bunch of things you've thrown on your desk."

"They're in files. I have a system."

"I wouldn't--"

"You can always find things on my desk."

"But, Josh, I know how your mind works."

"She called me Mr. Lyman."

"Now I'll admit she made a tactical error there, but I actually thought you'd like it."

"Well, I didn't. And she kept offering to bring me coffee."

"Coffee?"

"Yes."

"She offered to bring you coffee, and this upset you?"

"Do you know how wired I was at the end of the day from all that coffee?"

"So bringing you coffee is a bad thing?" Damn, if I could only get this moment on tape!

"Yes." And then the light dawns. "No. I mean, it was bad when she did it. Too much of a good thing. You, on the other hand--"

"Will bring you coffee when you take me to Hawaii and buy me a DVD player. Now, you have exactly seventy-five minutes to go home, shower, change your clothes and get back here in time for your meeting with President Bartlet."

I've trained him pretty well over the last two years. When I tell him he needs to go home, he goes. But first he stops at my desk.

"Donna," he says, "you have to promise me you will never take a pre-emptive sick day again."

"I can't promise that, Josh," I say. "After all, one never knows what the future may bring. However, I do believe I can safely promise never to bring you coffee."

He smiles. "Okay," he says. "I can settle for that."

* * *

It's late that afternoon before I see Josh again.

"I talked to Leo," he says.

"It's a rare day when you don't talk to Leo," I point out.

"I talked to Leo about you," he says.

For a moment, I panic. The last time Leo and Josh had a conversation that included me, Josh nearly argued both of us out of a job.

"About me?" I echo.

"About your raise. Leo agrees that we should request the raise. Now you won't have to give up your apartment."

"Josh!" What happens next is completely spontaneous. I throw my arms around him. It's nothing sexual, you understand. I'm simply expressing my appreciation about the raise. Like anyone would do, given the circumstances.

We stand like that for a minute, Josh and me. Josh moves and runs his hand through my hair, and he just looks at me. I have spent the last two years of my life watching Joshua Lyman, and I thought I knew every expression. But this one escapes me. If I had to describe it, I'd say he manages to look happy and sad at the same time.

"My Donnatella," he says. It's such a whisper that I'm not even sure at first that I heard it. Then he breaks away from me.

"Of course, it's not just you," he says apologetically. "Margaret's getting a raise too."

"This isn't an election, Josh," I point out. "It doesn't cheapen things for me if I'm not the only winner."

Then, being Josh, he suddenly changes the subject. "Donna," he says, "I never asked you -- what would be your counter argument to English as the national language?"

"Josh," I answer, "I gave you that stuff weeks ago."

"What stuff?"

"That stuff you told me to get on English as the national language. Remember? The James Madison?" I walk over to his desk and pick up the file I put together, which is in the middle of his current stack. "Why do I bother to do this stuff if you're not even going to read it?"

He takes the file from my hand, glances at it and then at me. "So what's your counter argument?"

I roll my eyes. If he'd bothered to read it, he wouldn't have to ask. "First Amendment," I say.

"The First Amendment?"

"Yes. You may have heard of it -- freedom of speech, freedom of expression, that kind of thing?"

"And?"

"And if you designate one language as the national language, you are by extension limiting the right of American citizens who primarily speak Spanish or Vietnamese or Cherokee to express themselves and enter into public debates."

"Cherokee is a language?"

"Yes, Josh, with its own alphabet and everything."

"Who knew?"

"The several million voters of Cherokee descent, I would guess."

"No, I meant -- never mind. It's a good counter argument, Donna."

"And you'd have known it weeks ago if you'd actually read the file."

I'm halfway out the door when Josh calls me again.

"What?" I ask.

"I really have missed you," he says. "I mean -- not just yesterday. I missed you."

There's no point pretending not to understand.

"I was right here the whole time, Josh."

"So I'm learning," he says.

* * *

And that's it: no big resolution, no declaration of love, no -- thank God! -- Celine Dion. Just a nice little moment in Josh's office. Just some banter. Just us.

I have no idea where any of this will lead. I don't even know what will happen between Josh and Joey Lucas, though I'm beginning to be a bit less paranoid on that subject.

I can imagine my future a couple of different ways. In one version, I'm telling a group of dear friends -- none of whom I have yet met -- about my days in the Bartlet White House. I'll tell them about the brash, egotistical, infuriating man I worked for and how, for a time, I thought I loved him. "Nothing ever came of it," I'll say, "but I'll always have a soft spot in my heart for Josh Lyman, wherever he is."

In the other version, of course, Josh and I are still together. But it's not a movie or a fairy tale. There's no "and they lived happily ever after." Because Josh and I together don't suddenly turn into some dewy-eyed adolescent dream of true love. We're still us, and that means we argue, we bicker, we banter. We have fun. For the rest of my life, in this version, I get to have fun with Josh.

I can see my life going either way, and I'm good with that. The future can take care of itself. I'm going to enjoy what I've got now.

So that is my advice: Don't mope for too long. Try not to hate the other woman too much. Eat plenty of chocolate. Listen to your friends.

Treasure what you have.

THE END  
10.04.00


End file.
